Delicate Procedures
by WhittyOne
Summary: Robert Romano/Elizabeth Corday...what else is there to say? This one is for the ladies at TWoP, particularly Rain, Trekgirl, and RL...come on girls; let's feel the love! Please read and review!
1. In the Dark

DISCLAIMER: We all know what "fanfic" means, right people? Fan + Fiction = Please don't sue The characters named in the following work are the exclusive property of Warner Bros., NBC, John Wells, Jack Orman, Michael Crichton, and I'm sure about a dozen other stuffed suits.  
  
Note From the Author: Okay Cordanos, here's the deal - Once upon a time, I like the rest of you, saw a great deal of romantic potential between Elizabeth Corday and Robert Romano. And then Elizabeth somehow sneaked away for a personality transplant without telling anyone and came back thinking her soulmate was Mark Greene. Sigh. They got engaged, got pregnant, got married, got a tumor, got Ella, got "Evil Rachel" and thus was spawned "Shrieking Elizabeth". Whimper. Not much inspiration for a great love story. So, if you are so inclined, let my slightly twisted (and very Paul McCrane addled) brain whisk you back in time to witness the creation of an alternate universe...  
  
Not quite a chapter - more like a brief introduction - Our story begins just after the events of season 5, episode 20 - "Power" - Elizabeth and Benton are no more, Elizabeth and Mark are just beginning, and Elizabeth is struggling to understand her boss.  
  
  
  
She couldn't sleep.  
  
The air in the room was heavy, thick, nearly choking her as she breathed in and out.  
  
She was wide-awake. Alone with her thoughts and anxieties. Unable to settle her mind, longing for distraction, any distraction.  
  
What a time for the bed to be empty.  
  
She was past missing Peter - recent turns of events had helped that along. He was good, very good. But she'd only just discovered the man could ravage her emotionally even better than he ever had physically. She thought back to that day in the locker room, after Anspaugh had finished serving her her own pride for lunch.  
  
Shedding your skin, Dr. Snake?  
  
So maybe first impressions are more reliable than people give them credit for.  
  
She'd tried hard with him, exerted more effort than he deserved. She abided his anxieties, his insecurities, confided in him her fears and uncertainty about her future - and this was what she was left with, how he chose to thank her. Her future was a stark, gray question mark; a decision left to someone else to make. All she could do was step into those hallways every day and try to prove that she was good enough, talented enough, sharp enough, stubborn enough - proving, proving, always something to prove. Days leaving her drained, shifts leaving her wasted and exhausted. Like today...  
  
He said shifting gears would work. He had been right, for a while. Had helped her feel giddy and energetic, much like a child. Laughs like those were becoming fewer and farther between. And then the damn power had blown again. He brought her home, touched her face gently as he stood with her outside the door. Normally such moments would produce a heady rush of hormones that she could surrender to, and be swept away by. But tonight, there was only sweet sincerity, an affectionate friendship. Bloody hell.  
  
Elizabeth lay under the linens of the bed, suddenly irritable. She rolled on her side, swiping tousled curls away from her face. So, if he didn't leave her feeling enticed, why was she so restless?  
  
Must have been Laurie. God, that poor woman. Elizabeth had opened up the human body time and again - had seen every inch of internal tissue subjected to some horrible trauma. But the sight of that limp, battered body, abandoned so carelessly on a bare gurney, would always rank high as one of the most pathetic sights she'd ever witnessed. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering. She tried to silence her raging mind as it produced the most despicable imaginings of what action may have left every bruise. The tragedy of the event was only heightened by the near- thwarted attempt to save her. She remembered observing Romano's incision, and then being lost in utter blackness. Realizing that surgeons aren't accustomed to feeling helpless. Controlled panic, silent urgency, a return to basic medical monitoring and instinct.and the tormented abused body was restored. She would live to breathe another day. Except, not really. Not without help, anyway. But it wasn't her job to assess who should be kept alive and who should be allowed to drift away. He reminded her of that, much to her chagrined surprise. Yes, Laurie's case was just another example of how human depravity never ceased to amaze her.  
  
Neither did its sudden and unexplained reversal.  
  
He had put her through her paces; there was no denying that. She had jumped through every hoop he'd placed in front of her. She had fought to earn his respect, but never felt like he granted it. She knew she had his admiration, but somehow, it just wasn't the same thing. Of course, the nuances would escape him, should anyone ever try to explain. Grouchy little wanker. She had come to the States so certain of her course. And now, she was adrift, no clear career path in front of her, scrambling to create her own meal from the scraps dropped from other's plates. He snatched away her opportunity and left her to carve her own niche, all because of an uncomfortable moment at the lunch counter of a cliched greasy spoon.  
  
Well, you sure showed him, didn't you Elizabeth? He expected you to run - maybe you should have. But you didn't. You stayed, took the demotion, essentially started over. Let him see your subservient side. And probably gave him the most intellectual thrill his over-inflated ego could ever hope for. Well done.  
  
Months of abuse, of posturing, of scheming and manipulating.and then he stood before her tonight, a simple plea on his lips.  
  
I would do anything in my power to have you stay in surgery.  
  
She was floored, though she felt she'd done a good job of hiding it. One good thing about hours of tedious surgery performed in the dark - it made those watching you willing to believe your shocked surprise was just bewildered exhaustion. His voice was almost lyrical, and without realizing it he had paid her the sweetest, most endearing compliment she'd ever received.  
  
Your face I can't resist....  
  
He offered up the ultimate concession - an example of his own humility. Acknowledging her distaste for their professional association. Making a promise to give her a wide berth. Dark eyes burning into her all the while. And then he was crossing the room, circling the bed, extending his arm. For a moment, Elizabeth believed he would take her face in his hand, fingers brushing her earlobe, thumb tracing her jaw, and.  
  
All he did was take the bag from her hand.  
  
Dear God, is that why she couldn't sleep?! She'd just finished one of the most intense shifts in her work as a doctor. She had to bear witness to, and lend a hand in, a rape and near-murder victim's struggle to hang on to life. She had to identify the woman's attacker, dead in the morgue by his own hand. She had gone on what was, for all intents and purposes, a second date with a man who was kind and gentle and sincere. And tomorrow she was going to walk back into the hospital and give all she had, even though by the end of the day, they may decide that they no longer have room for her.  
  
Yet now she lay awake, consumed by thoughts of a ninety-second conversation with Romano? Utterly ridiculous.  
  
She pounded the pillow with her fist, thrust her ear against it's depth, and yanked the sheet up over her shoulder.  
  
Romano... 


	2. A Quiet Patch

DISCLAIMER: He's so fine, but he's not mine, and I'm not making one thin dime. So if you sue, please bear in mind, you'll only waste your lawyer's time.  
  
A shout out to those who have left me feedback.you rock my world. Let's see if I can Rocket yours.  
  
RL - not much writhing here, sorry to say. Wrap yourself in your email, and be patient.  
  
  
  
He kept his word.  
  
Elizabeth slipped quietly onto the surgical floor the next morning, catching an acrid whiff of disinfectant and the silent whisper of her scrubs and labcoat. The halls were empty. She made her way to the desk, checked the board. Corday/Anspaugh, Benton/Romano/Edson, Corday/Benton/Anspaugh.  
  
Well, I'll be damned.  
  
Her chest loosened a bit, and she was breathing much easier by the time she reached the scrub room. She checked her hair, secured beneath her surgical cap, and selected a sponge. Hitting the lever that would trigger the water with her thigh, she began to soak her arms. She was just working up lather when the door swung open. She jumped a bit, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder.and sighed as Donald Anspaugh greeted her with a gruff, "Good morning, Dr. Corday."  
  
"Good morning, Donald."  
  
"Nothing like an aortic dissection to get the juices flowing in the morning, eh?"  
  
"Well, I rather think our Mr. Henderson would prefer us indulging in a cup of coffee." Elizabeth laughed a little, chafing the sponge between her fingers. The elder surgeon began speaking once more, and she lifted her head to focus on his words.  
  
.but was utterly distracted when she caught a glimpse of him, passing outside the scrub room door. Her swallow hitched in her throat. Why? Was it out of dread? Anxiety? Could it be. anticipation? She waited, breathless. Her mind began to race.  
  
He'll close his hand around the door handle and pull, and his very presence will suck the air from the room. He'll make his way to a sink, that familiar, infuriating cocky stride. no man so short has any right holding his head so high.his bald head at that. And he'll start. "Lizzie!"  
  
He passed the scrub room and kept right on going, his blue scrub coat billowing behind him.  
  
Her held breath escaped in a- ?disappointed? Nonsense - whoosh. Anspaugh's droning voice returned to her ears.  
  
"And, if all goes well, he should be stable in recovery before lunch. Elizabeth? Elizabeth!"  
  
Her head snapped away from the window. "Of course, Donald," she spoke haltingly.  
  
"Are you feeling all right?" Anspaugh's brow furrowed a bit.  
  
"Absolutely," Elizabeth fixed him with a genuine smile. "Shall we to our patient?"  
  
The procedure went well, if uneventfully. No caustic banter, no posturing or preening, just good old-fashioned teamwork. "How droll," she said to herself with a wicked little grin. Her pager sounded from her hip. The ER. Mark. Her step quickened a bit as she strode to the elevator.  
  
She disembarked and moved quickly to the admit desk, where Randi directed her to curtain two. Sure enough, he was there, guiding his hands tenderly of the stomach of a frightened-looking young woman. "You mean you're going to have to cut me open?"  
  
Mark saw he approaching and beamed slightly. "Well, here's the doctor who can tell us for sure. Dr. Corday, meet Jennifer."  
  
"Rule-out appy?" Elizabeth took the chart. Mark nodded, and they huddled over the young woman together. After a few moments, she determined the young patient did not need surgery, and thought the girl would kiss her. Mark murmured something about getting a prescription and then he had her elbow, and was moving her towards the admit desk. "So I had this idea." He seemed quite excited. Elizabeth softened her expression, wanting his enthusiasm to sink into her. "There's a new restaurant near Wicker Park. We could go after your shift.I hear the pasta is amazing. And afterward."  
  
"Hey, you, nurse! Where's the rule out triple A?"  
  
His voice drilled into her head, spinning it on her neck. Gliding down the hall towards the trauma room, gold stethoscope glinting  
  
(pretentious little bastard)  
  
scrub coat billowing. He hit the doors at full stride, they opened agreeably. She knew Mark was still speaking, she could hear the drone of his voice in her ear. Yet she couldn't move her face from the window. Watching him through the blinds. Hands pressing stethoscope to chest, to throat. Fingers flipping nimbly through papers on the chart. The wrinkle of the bare forehead as he raised his eyebrows. Then said brows knit together, and he tossed some caustic remark out at the withering resident. Muscle and ligament flexing under skin as he slammed the bedrail into place. Doors slamming open - "Let's get him up to the OR."  
  
And he was gone.  
  
Elizabeth was breathing normally again. When had she stopped? And why? She turned her focus back to Mark, who was no longer speaking. Just regarding her with sad, rueful amusement.  
  
"That guy really gets to you, doesn't he?"  
  
"Mark, you have no idea." Elizabeth answered honestly.  
  
"Well, I'll see what I can do about keeping him out of your hair. Like I said, tonight would be the perfect chance to put the finishing touches on your campaign for the trauma fellowship.."  
  
Her ears perked up at that. The trauma fellowship - maybe her last chance to remain at County. Mark would help; he was a good friend. "I'd appreciate that.."  
  
She returned to the surgical floor, needing to check on her patients in post-op. She pulled the door open and stepped inside, reaching for the chart at the foot of the first bed before she noticed.  
  
He was hovering over a gurney, checking the pupils of a stroke patient. He called out a few observations for the nurse to make note of before tossing her penlight easily back to her. Elizabeth had to give proper credit - Romano was certainly in his element. She tended to her own patient silently, waiting for the shoe to drop.  
  
It would start with him calling her name. That huge, robust "Lizzie!" that only he could muster. He never did pay much attention to the fact that he never once asked if he could address her as such. Presumptuous, arrogant, unapologetic. He would call out her name, and then he'd cross the room in his own unique gait, and the game would begin. What might he throw at her today? More chiding about wasting her talents on such a lowly ambition as trauma surgery? More gleeful dancing on the grave of her romance with Peter? Well, she'd always held her own in the past. Today would be no different.  
  
Except that it was.  
  
She lifted her attention from examining her patient just as Romano completed the evaluation of his. Their eyes met briefly, brown boring into blue. The corner of his mouth curled a bit...here it comes...  
  
He gave a curt little nod and turned on his heel. In a whisper of gray linen trousers and white cotton labcoat, he was gone without a word  
  
Well, that's a relief...  
  
Elizabeth returned to her rounds, but a feeling of unsettling irritation gnawed its way into her stomach. Which only made sense. Within hours, she would know the fate of her career. She would be able to see her path with Mark a bit more clearly, and hopefully, so would he. She would be free to put together any kind of future she chose, and he would no longer have her under his thumb. Which was fine with her.  
  
Completely fine with her. 


	3. Behind Closed Eyes

DISCLAIMER: Elizabeth Corday is not mine - although I think she and I could have a helluva good time going out on the town. Robert Romano is not mine, although he should be - I would put him in his place and he would like it. Mark Greene is not mine, and I DO NOT want him. All three belong to that monolith we call WB. Which is sad, since they don't appreciate the finer two, and the one they did seem to like they killed..not that I'm complaining..  
  
R -rating. Here come the hormones. You've been warned.  
  
  
  
It had been a very sweet good-night.  
  
The food was delicious, the wine superb, they'd even had another go at the tango. Elizabeth almost felt guilty when she turned the conversation to work. But Mark was agreeable and listened patiently as she lobbied her case once more. He was attentive, nodding and meeting her eyes, but she occasionally caught him gazing at her hair, or imperceptibly stroking her hand. She didn't mind; he was harmless enough. Yet it made her feel a bit..whorish. Like she was using his tender attraction to further her career.  
  
Wait - further my career? Without this trauma fellowship, I may not have a career! And I'm not using him, I'm...dating him? Well, yes, I guess. And people discuss these things when they're dating. Of course they do. Of course we are. Dating...  
  
He ordered dessert with a flourish - one slice of cheesecake, two forks. So romantically inept. Sweet man. They had eaten, heads bowed, silver clinking against china, a sound she would forever associate with the social ritual of finding a mate. And then he had brought her home. Smoothed her hair back from her face, touched her cheek. His lips had been warm and soft, if a bit thin. He wanted to be invited in. She knew it without him saying a word. And it would be nice, not waking up in an empty bed. But something held her back, something elusive. Doubt? Nerves? Fear? Get over it, Elizabeth. It isn't like you've got so many other tempting offers. She changed clothes wearily and climbed into bed.  
  
  
  
She was dreaming.  
  
She had to be. She'd said goodnight to him at the door. He'd gotten in his car and left. She'd gone to bed alone.  
  
But there was weight on her body. Lips at her throat. Strong hands at her thighs.  
  
It had to be a dream.  
  
She reached up, blind in the dark. Her forearms made contact with warm skin, broad shoulders, wiry muscle; her hands found angles of bone, shoulder blade, spine. The mouth on her neck exhaled a small chuckle of warm breath. Encouraged by her touch, it moved higher, finding the hollow between ear and jaw. Strong teeth nibbled; soft tongue flickered. Her flesh awoke, seared, cried out for more.  
  
The hands on her thighs moved higher, probing, exploring. Found a ticklish spot to the left of her navel, another just below her ribcage. She squirmed, and another chuckle resonated in her ear before warm lips closed on her earlobe. Palms sliding higher, covering her in warmth, making flesh rise to their touch. She cried out softly. She turned her head, needing to find those lips with her own. Her eyes closed.  
  
Dear God. How could she have thought of those lips as thin? They were full and firm, warm and electric. She parted them with her tongue, tasting the dark landscape hidden within his mouth. Moist and sweet and inviting. His tongue danced against hers, hands plunged into her hair. She raked her nails across his back, felt him gasp against her mouth. He returned the favor by tightening his grip in her hair and pulling her head to a more favorable angle. She giggled, never having thought he had it in him.  
  
The weight crushing down on her shifted a bit, seeking.  
  
And she was lost in the most delicious spiral of sensation she could have imagined. The air above her was no longer black, but warm crimson, cool violet, swirling yellow, brilliant orange, and her breath was coming in mewling gasps, and his mouth was moving against hers and she was lost. Those hands in her hair, on her throat, and lower, and  
  
yes, don't stop, don't be afraid, don't be shy -  
  
and she was touching him, the soft hair at the base of his skull, the smooth skin that crowned his head, the stubble that peppered his jaw. Her fingers at their lips, he caught one between his teeth, swirled his tongue around her fingertip, and she grabbed him, embraced him, drew his head to her neck, and he spoke...that deep, lyrical voice vibrating against her ear...  
  
"Good work Lizzie..."  
  
She jerked bolt upright, clutching the pillow to her chest. ROMANO?!  
  
"Ugh!" She raked her fingers through her hair as though she could erase the image from her mind by clawing it out through her scalp. "Oh, God - how horrid!" She looked down and saw moonlight reflecting the sheen of perspiration on her chest, her v-neck T-shirt soaked and clinging to her body. "Damn!" She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to deny the ache she felt from deep within her loins. She rose on wobbly knees - "Bloody Hell!" - and made her way to the bathroom. A shower. She felt soiled, felt dirty, felt violated. Sure the little bastard had left her alone today - he knew he'd be battering his way into her thoughts tonight! She ripped off her damp sleep shirt, shoved down her pajama trousers and fairly jumped beneath the stream of hot water.  
  
Shampoo. Wash that man right out of my hair, indeed. She tore at her scalp, raked at her hair, scrubbed at her face. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to grab her toothbrush. Finally, the crawling of her skin subsided and she let the water stream over her, rinsing away suds and, hopefully, memory.  
  
It would not do to file such thoughts away. Better to banish them now.  
  
Oh, bugger it. It was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. Certainly nothing sexual. Isn't that what the experts said? Sexual dreams were never really about sex. Stress, mostly. Yes, perfectly sensible. She was stressed. More so than ever before in her life. It only made sense for her to dream such a thing.  
  
And Romano?  
  
Well, he was the source of all her misery - the father of her anguish. So of course, if stress equals sex in the world of nocturnal vision, then it bloody well should be him cast as the predator. In fact, it was amazing he'd never made an appearance before tonight.  
  
And a pity.  
  
The thought leapt, unbidden, uninvited, into her mind. Elizabeth! - the voice in her head sounded very much like her mother's. Which, of course, incited rebellion almost immediately.  
  
What?! It was a really vivid dream. He was really quite good.  
  
UGH! STOP IT! He's a horrible little vermin...and that was YOUR filthy mind for once, not his. He's most likely a bumbling fool in such matters, so there's no point wasting your time thinking otherwise. Better just to keep on hating him, you'll lose your focus otherwise.  
  
The internal dialogue silenced. She exhaled raggedly. Reached for the tap, meaning to turn off the water, to towel of and return to bed. And then that defiant little voice again...  
  
There's something about the idea of being touched by a man whom you know, for a fact, has wanted nothing else for so long - being touched - being desired - being worshipped...  
  
Her hand grabbed the knob and yanked it all the way to the right, and she yelped as the cold water pelted her skin. 


	4. Her Strongest Weakness

Disclaimer: Is it really necessary to rub this in, time and time again? All right, fine: The characters contained herein are the exclusive property of yadda yadda yadda WB, NBC, blah blah blah, ownership by the author is neither stated nor implied humina, humina, DONE! Not mine! Got it? Good.  
  
  
  
RL, my separated-at-birth-alternate-universe-twin - stated somewhere your desire to move to Texas. Bring it on, girl.Corona and lime on the beach, another visit with Mr.Cuervo, then settling down at the word processor - we could really curl some hair, couldn't we? If not a relocation, maybe a vacation? Hmmm. Seriously though, readers - if you like what your reading, blow noisy kisses Rocket Launcher's way, 'cuz that last chapter wouldn't have happened the way it did without her.  
  
And finally, to PMCFan - my other lovely, if impatient muse - many, many thanks for seeing me through those long, bleary-eyed nights in front of the monitor, helping provide the grist for the Romano Lust Mill. You're a gem, you are. ***sending Scooter the Patented Romano-Ella Wave***  
  
Maybe just PG this time.and quit throwing things at me; mad shagging is always best if you haaaaaave....tooooo.....waaaait....foooor....iiiiit...  
  
A little music to set the stage, courtesy of Alanis Morrissette:  
  
"Like anyone would be, I am flattered by your fascination with me. Like any hot-blooded woman, I have simply wanted an object to crave. But you? You're not allowed. You're uninvited. An unfortunate slight.."  
  
  
  
  
  
She was exhausted.  
  
The coffee was hot, but lousy, and it wasn't even doing its job. Eyelids weighted, arms hanging heavily at her sides, legs walking as if through wet concrete instead of over polished tile. Her blood droned a monotone in her ears, she could feel the pulsing of the artery just below her jaw. A head- splitting yawn, the ding of the elevator, and she was inside. Muzak. Dear God.  
  
She had been afraid to go back to sleep.  
  
She was so certain that she'd close her eyes and he would pounce, from the darkest recesses of her mind. Drag her down into that swirling vortex of revulsion, confusion, and erotic desire. And she was terrified that she would go. Willingly. Eagerly. Begging for more.  
  
Elizabeth, you've got to get laid.  
  
The doors before her slid open and she stepped out onto the surgical floor. Phones ringing, pagers chiming, the familiar beeps and whispers of various monitors. Felt like home. She made her way down the hall to the desk and checked the board. An audible sigh of relief escaped her. Another Romano- free afternoon. Thank God. She didn't think she could have handled that. Having to face him after..  
  
..the taste of his tongue in her mouth, the strength of his hands gripping her hair, the rumble of his voice in his chest as he pressed it to hers...  
  
She shook her head to clear it. A voice at her elbow. Peter Benton's. "Elizabeth? Are you all right?"  
  
She turned to him with a tight-lipped smile. "Yes, fine, thank you, Peter." He was gazing at her piteously. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Well," his tone turned sheepish. "You look like hell. Like you didn't sleep at all last night."  
  
She glared at him. "Well, I appreciate your concern, but it really isn't necessary - "  
  
He reached out and touched the elbow of her scrub coat. "Is this about the trauma fellowship? Because if it is, Elizabeth, you've got to believe me when I tell you I never thought it would affect you this way." He cast his eyes down. "You've always handled yourself so well - I had no idea you were that desperate to get away from him."  
  
And you still don't..  
  
"Listen, Peter, there's no need for us to re-hash this every time we come face to face." She sighed heavily. "Let's just wish each other good luck and leave it at that, all right?" She smiled briskly. "Besides the suspense will be over soon - I hear Anspaugh has scheduled a meeting for this evening." Benton nodded, his eyes finally meeting hers. That deep, chocolate brown..  
  
....that seemed to swallow her as he gazed down at her from above, his nose brushing hers, his weight pressing her into the embrace of the mattress, and he would speak her name and her blood would rush to the sound..."Lizzie"...  
  
" - find you after, okay?"  
  
Her attention jerked -reluctantly?! - back to the moment at hand. "Hmm? Oh, uh - yes, of course, Peter." She nodded, having no earthly idea what she had just agreed to. But it seemed to have been the right move. He was leaving, his amiable gait carrying him off down the hall. Once he was gone, she leaned on the edge of the desk, gripping it painfully with taut knuckles. Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip. She scanned the board once more. She was due in OR one in ten minutes. Please God. Let it be something lengthy and tedious and detailed, a procedure that would require full attention, no time for mind-wandering or daydreaming. A nice, good, intense distraction - triple bypass, aortic graft, hell - a bowel resection would do at this point.  
  
A hernia repair? Well, it will have to do.  
  
She headed for the scrub room...  
  
...and stopped short when she saw him inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
It was inevitable, she guessed. Couldn't avoid him forever.  
  
She squared her shoulders. You can do this, Elizabeth. Deep breath, push with the hips, and here we go..  
  
  
  
"Dr. Corday," Anspaugh greeted her with a respectful nod.  
  
Romano's eyes were on his lathered forearm. He didn't lift them. "Lizzie"  
  
"Gentlemen." She took her place at a sink. Scraped under fingernails, collected sponge, triggered water - see, this isn't so difficult.  
  
"So, Donald," his voice, lilting on the air. "You sure we can't push this meeting off just one more day? I'm totally jammed."  
  
She looked at him from beneath lidded eyes. He was still focused on his arms, speaking to Donald, but she knew full well the words were for her. More cat and mouse. It was all in his tone. I've got your jo-hob, and you ca-han't have it, ha ha ha ha ha ha.  
  
"We've put this decision off long enough, Robert. It's time to move forward."  
  
"I agree," Romano finally lifted his gaze, and she felt it dance lightly across her face as he spoke in a maddeningly reasonable tone. "I should think it's obvious that moving forward is my main concern, since I am the one lone voice speaking in defense of our residents. Moving forward is not something they'll be doing sitting on their scalpels down in the ER."  
  
"Believe me, Robert," Anspaugh spoke icily, "you've made your concerns quite obvious."  
  
Elizabeth had been observing the exchange with mild interest and contempt to this point, but her heart leapt into her throat as Donald nudged off the water and shook off his hands. Moved towards the door. He was leaving! And she'd be alone with -  
  
The door swung shut. She swallowed. Hard.  
  
He's not looking at you, he's scrubbing. He doesn't expect you to look at him, he knows how you feel. And he has no idea about - you know - so no ammunition there. Just don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about him.  
  
"Well, Dr. Corday, I'm sure that sets your heart all a flutter."  
  
She flinched visibly. "Excuse me?"  
  
His eyes met hers over the running water. Open, unfettered, innocent. Well, as innocent as his could be.  
  
"The final countdown. T-minus nine hours and counting until the launch of the trauma fellowship. The suspense must be killing you." The smirk in his voice was undeniable.  
  
"Really? I rather thought it was you doing the squirming there..." Suitable response, nice delivery. Stay away from words like 'squirm', though, or you'll be your own undoing. Don't look at him, just scrub.  
  
"Well," his drawl told her she had chinked but not penetrated. "I must admit the pillaging of the surgical staff does set my teeth on edge. But what I'm more amazed by is your apparent lack of appetite -"  
  
Her knee gave out. She pretended to be adjusting the flow of the water, but could feel the rush of blood coloring her neck. He'd be able to see it if he cast a glance at the dip in the collar of her scrubs. Which he probably would, when he thought she wasn't paying attention.  
  
"The appetite is still there, Robert. Tastes change is all."  
  
He snorted. "You really did spend too much time with Benton. Turing away from the hearty meat on your plate up here to waste away in the vegan lifestyle of trauma surgery. You know what they say, Lizzie. You can live on it, but it tastes like shit. Couldn't do it myself."  
  
Scrub. Don't look up. Scrub. "Really?" Dry. Disinterested. Good girl.  
  
"Nope. I'm one for substance. Essence. A little juice to get the blood flowing, know what I mean?"  
  
Dear God. Do I ever. Care for a boiled egg?  
  
She cleared her throat. "Well, after the year I've had, I could use a bit of thinning."  
  
Wrong thing to say. His eyes swept her from head to toe, drinking in face and form and leaving her feeling stripped bare. He turned off the faucet, shook out his fingers. A low, throaty voice. "I don't know about that. A curve here and there never does go amiss."  
  
She was speechless. Game. Set. Match. Romano.  
  
He was still holding her gaze evenly. When had they made eye contact? "Planning on operating one handed, Dr. Corday?"  
  
Her brow furrowed. "Beg pardon?"  
  
His lips curled in a knowing grin.  
  
"You've been scrubbing that same spot since you stepped to the sink.." 


	5. An Offer She Couldn't Refuse

DISCLAIMER: While I would love to take credit for the brilliant and volatile creation that is Robert Romano, sadly I cannot. Nor can I for that lovely bird Elizabeth Corday. They are merely puppets in someone else's play, and I've sneaked in to pull the strings a bit. Care to watch them dance?  
  
They put 'em both on, but not in the same scene. Damn. Well, maybe when he said he came down to say good night and Godspeed he was on his way to warm the bed for his lovely muse still stuck in surgery. No? **sigh** On his way to warm MY bed? No? DAMN!  
  
Remember, folks, Alternate Universe.  
  
Think PG. Then again, you might get lucky.  
  
  
  
She was in utter shock.  
  
Just who in the bloody hell did he think he was?  
  
She stood, staring, outside the men's room door, so tempted to just barge her way in and slice him verbally from crotch to carotid. However, he had her so rattled she was afraid all she'd be able to manage would be, "You know what, Robert? I lied, I do view you as a loathsome toad."  
  
Hardly a retort worthy of the risk of catching him at the urinal.  
  
So she stalked away, skirt swishing, stethoscope beating time against her chest. Associate Chief of Surgery? What did he think he was playing at? A childish game of war, casting himself as the general and her as his faithful lieutenant? Arrogant, pompous, presumptuous ass. But it may make for some interesting dreams..  
  
NOT if I can help it.  
  
Mark. I need Mark.  
  
She fairly flew to the elevator.  
  
  
  
Word traveled fast in a gossip mill like County. They were already greeting her with her new title before she even stepped off the elevator. Congratulations, Dr. Corday..What a surprise, Dr. Corday.. That's what they said. But she knew what they meant..many sympathies, Dr. Corday. All she wanted to do was find Mark. He would calm her nerves, reassure her, be the friend, the stabilizing force she needed. She swept into the trauma room, her pulse slowing the moment she lay eyes on him. He was pulling off a drape and snapping off gloves. His eyes rose to meet hers and she sighed. Warm comfort, relief to see her, gentle happiness all reflected from behind his glasses. There would be no undertow of emotion in those eyes to drag her down, to suffocate her senses.  
  
And, yes, Elizabeth..that's a good thing.  
  
They were speaking. She hadn't been aware. Evidently she was getting good at weaving her way through conversations on auto-pilot; no one seemed to notice she wasn't paying attention half the time.  
  
"So I heard a rumor..."  
  
  
  
  
  
She stumbled out of the elevator, back on to the surgical floor, nearly blinded by her anger.  
  
How dare he?  
  
She had been counting on him to calm her down, to support and encourage her. She needed him to tell her to go ahead, to take the job, that she deserved it. To congratulate her on finally jumping through that final hoop into something stable, secure, and well earned. To let her feel validated. To tell her he was glad she'd be staying at County. Instead...  
  
"Why'd he pick you?"  
  
What a slap in the face!  
  
She'd tossed her surgical ability out as a reason, and he nodded grudgingly, but she saw the look in his eye. The look that said he secretly believed Romano thought she would show him her gratitude for the promotion lying flat on her back. Her mind wandered back to the evening he'd informed her the trauma fellowship would go to Benton. His words - "I wanted you, but I'm not that objective." Hypocrite! She had been so tempted to throw in his smug, wan face that she knew, deep down, he was hoping for the same kind of gesture of thanks. Instead she bit back her anger and explained, like to a child, what a fool she would be to pass up such an opportunity.  
  
He wasn't buying it. He just held her gaze, his filled with that sanctimonious regard she was becoming all too familiar with these days. Moral superiority. Bollocks!  
  
She needed quiet, privacy, a place to calm the blinding anger in her head. She wasn't even aware of where she was headed until she found herself at the door. "Brenda, is he in?"  
  
The young woman shook her head.  
  
"Well, if he returns, tell him his Associate Chief needed some privacy." She yanked the door open, swept inside, and slammed it shut with her back. Too much too handle all at once. Everything she thought she could count on was faltering. Everything she believed unreliable now seemed the only source of progress. Damn. She leaned her head back against the glass and closed her eyes.  
  
Which brought her other senses into acute focus, reminding her where she was.  
  
The office smelled like him. Soap, aftershave, crisp linen, a hint of latex. She breathed in deeply despite herself. A radio played from some dim corner...the drone of a saxophone, the tinkling of piano, the comforting thud of bass...Robert - a jazz fan? Mozart, Chopin, Strauss, sure. But jazz? Not nearly pretentious enough for the Great Rocket Romano.  
  
An image burst forth in her mind, unbidden, uninvited....  
  
A dark, smoky dance floor. Broad shoulders beneath her arm, wiry muscle rigid under her hand. Her chin resting in that hollow between neck and shoulder, stubble-peppered jaw scraping her cheek. Her fingers entwined with his, strong and warm and comforting. A hand pressed flat at the small of her back, the jut of a hip grazing hers as they glided together as one. The boom of the bass felt more in their chests then heard in their ears, the plea of a trumpet dancing across their skin. She would move against him, letting him feel the firm softness hidden by her dress and his breath would catch in his throat. He would slide his palm up between her shoulder blades, his fingers would find purchase in her hair, and his mouth...warm and sweet and moist and dark..her hands would clutch at his shoulders, nails raking at muscle beneath fabric, and lower, tracing shoulder blades and ribs an lumbar, and boldly lower still, pushing him close, making contact, body against body, and he would break the kiss and yank her head back and his lips at her throat, his tongue, his teeth and she would say his name, relishing its flavor on her tongue.  
  
"Robert...Robert..."  
  
Her eyes flew open as she pulled herself from her reverie with a jerk.  
  
Should have known better than to step into the inner sanctum. Good Lord, Lizzie, pull yourself together.  
  
She gasped a bit as even her inner voice betrayed her.  
  
I meant Elizabeth...  
  
She stumbled away from the door, meaning to sit down. Her hands fell on the back of his chair, finding his suit coat draped casually over the leather. Before she could stop herself she was curling her fingers into the linen, lifting it with a whisper, pressing it to her face. Oh, God, Robert..  
  
Dropping it with a muted yelp, she raced for the door.  
  
  
  
She spent the remainder of the afternoon coolly denying the incident took place. Two trauma calls in the ER, one trip to the OR, and she was back on a somewhat even keel. More congratulations on her new position, more awkward silences shared with Mark. He wanted to take her out. She declined. She told herself she was still angry.  
  
But that's not really the truth, is it, Elizabeth? Isn't the truth that you only want to go home, wrap yourself in a warm bath...and turn on Ella Fitzgerald? See what lovely images might return for a visit, see what shape and color and texture they might take in the safety and privacy of your own room?  
  
Rubbish.  
  
A voice from behind her. The voice. His voice. "So, Lizzie, I heard you laid up in the OR today."  
  
A grin began to curl her lips. She turned, eager to pick up whatever verbal gauntlet he threw down....  
  
Oh, my God.  
  
Those broad shoulders encased in black. That beautifully defined jaw hovering above the bow tie. Even his forehead had an irresistible polish to it. Tuxedo clad and grinning, he took her very breath away.  
  
More hateful images battered her exhausted brain. Sweeping the admit desk bare, stumbling to a gurney, to chairs, bloody hell - to the floor....  
  
Focus. Business. Talk.  
  
"Listen, Robert, about Peter.." Droning litany commenced. He spoke animatedly, she nodded. The flash of white teeth as he spoke, the raise of an eyebrow, the curl of a lip. Pools of deep mocha brown swirling, inviting her in, bathing her in seductive warmth. And she was nodding, acquiescing, agreeing, surrendering..  
  
She'd been speaking with half a brain again. Damn it, Liz - ELIZabeth, you've got to be more careful.  
  
"So is that an official acceptance of my offer?"  
  
Lewd responses twisting her tongue in response. She bit down hard. Tasted acrid blood. It brought her back to her senses.  
  
"Yes, Robert, I suppose it is." The twinkle in his eye, the spring in his step, and he was gone. Haleh whistled through her teeth as she passed his breezy exit. She cocked a curious eye.  
  
"Where's he off to all dressed up?"  
  
Elizabeth shook her head wearily.  
  
"I've no idea - but wherever it is, he's taking my soul along.." 


	6. The Devil's in the Details

DISCLAIMER: I know what you're thinking..are these her characters, or someone else's? Is she really going to take the property of NBC, WB, John Wells, Jack Orman, & Michael Crichton and twist it to suit her own imagination and thrill us, the Reading Public? Well, just ask yourself this..  
  
Do you feel lucky, punk?  
  
Many apologies for a couple of editing kinks in the last chapter..hopefully they're gone by now.  
  
I'm sure you all have opinions of this little work by now, so in regards to feedback:  
  
Go ahead. Make my day..  
  
PG - once again. Two words - pleasure delayer. Oh, you can take it...  
  
TwoP lasses. there are shout out's here for you. Let's see if you can find 'em.  
  
  
  
  
  
She was up to her ears, and still the tension was there.  
  
Liquid bliss, the heady scent of jasmine, the soft *plip* of the bubbles as they popped around her face. And still, she could not relax. She took a deep breath and submerged. Silent whooshing, the quiet lubbing of her heart. and the vision of him.  
  
Always him, lately.  
  
Making her jaw clench, her hands ball into fists, and her stomach twine in knots. Her shoulders tensed at the sight of him. Her mind recoiled at the sound of his voice. And her knees.  
  
The reactions were the same as they had always been. It was the motivation behind them that was different. She used to shudder at his approach because she feared he'd come striding up to her.  
  
Now she was afraid he would pass right by her.  
  
She used to dread seeing him, knowing he would find some excuse to talk to her.  
  
Now she was afraid of his silence.  
  
What the hell was happening?  
  
She broke surface, swiping suds away from her face. Hands on porcelain, pushing her up, cold pinpricks of air on her skin as her body left the water. Rough terrycloth, soft silk, and she exited the steaming bathroom. She moved silently into the kitchen and selected a bottle of wine. Blood red swallowed by sparkling clear crystal, baptizing lips, tongue, throat, burning a path to her stomach. She crossed the room and cued up the stereo, scanning the FM range. Some bloody insurance commercial, the twang of some tragic Texas heroine, and an ad for a car dealership, some inane rambling from random DJ and the long slow moan of an oboe.  
  
Her hand clutched the bowl of the glass...she knew what was coming..  
  
"At laaaaaast.. my love has come along."  
  
Her body swayed involuntarily to the music. Why should it be any different from the rest of her when it came to Romano? She cast her mind back to earlier that afternoon. Delicious fantasy. She sank into the soft cushions of the sofa, sighing at their linen embrace. She closed her eyes...  
  
He had a new taunt in store for her.  
  
He was there, in her mind's eye. Starched white lab coat hugging taut broad shoulders, stethoscope glinting smartly. Purple shirt cinched at the neck with purple satin tie. Arms crossed over chest, wisps of hair visible above the links of his watch. Regarding her with an amazing calm, a quiet detachment. A wry grin twisted his lips, and he shook his head slowly. Turned away. And vanished.  
  
She nearly called for him aloud. "Don't go.."  
  
Even in fantasy, the man could protect his ego.  
  
And Elizabeth knew she would be gearing up for a new struggle with her own.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
She had to admit, they made a pretty good team.  
  
He was pompous and pretentious; she was professional and diplomatic. He gave her orders; she did pretty much as she pleased. And somehow, it worked. Their edges fit together quite nicely, and she actually found herself looking forward to seeing him every day, even anticipating his caustic little barbs. The day he asked her what she would pay for his sperm nearly doubled her over in laughter - would have, if not for Peter's presence in her office. She was so tempted to tell him to damn the sperm bank - that if she wanted what he had to offer, she'd get it the old fashioned way. And he would gladly give it for free.  
  
God, how I would have loved to see the expression on his face. Shock? Delight? Hope?  
  
She'd said nothing, of course. Simply folded her arms over her chest and set her face in her, "He's just being Robert," expression. Robert..  
  
Yes, they made a pretty good team.  
  
Not that it was all tea and roses. There were costs, concessions. Like being clustered away in that broom closet of an office. It was tiny and cramped and poorly lit.  
  
But it was hers. Her office. The one ego-stroke she allowed herself. No personalized scrubs, no emblazoning monogram on her lab coat. Just her office. And even that one indulgence had gotten her into a sticky situation...  
  
She could laugh about it now, thank God.  
  
She had been so proud the day of her official moving in. A spot at County just for her. A retreat, a sanctuary where all others would need permission to enter. She lifted the telephone, dialed engineering with a flourish. "This is Doctor Elizabeth Corday up in surgery. I need you to send someone up her to stencil the door of my office." Her voice was the perfect mix of efficiency and enthusiasm. She sat and waited, but unfortunately, the OR beckoned. No problem. She picked up a pen and a piece of paper. It's simply a matter of leaving them a note, stating how the label should read. She taped the slip to the door and headed off to scrub.  
  
The procedure had been tolerable enough, and she and Robert had bantered their way through it on an even keel. They finished, left a resident to close, and returned to the scrub room. Robert was blathering on about that morning's Emergency Services Committee Meeting, a favorite of his. He never missed a gleeful opportunity to throw a wrench into Kerry Weaver's business, Elizabeth noted silently, with a grin. One day, the woman was going to attempt to beat him to death with that crutch of hers. She only hoped she would be there to see it. But whose side would she take?  
  
They left the scrub room and headed down the hall, Robert still speaking, she still barely listening. She was listing in her head the texts she would need to prepare for the next morning, and she only broke from that train of thought when she realized he had stopped short, just outside her office door. She glanced at him, and was struck by his expression. His eyes were fairly exploding with fireworks, and his lips were curled in a grin brilliant with mischief. It made her own lips twist in a half-smile, until she turned and saw the cause of his hilarity. She flushed to the roots of her hair, jaw dropping, eyes widening. The low chuckle from his throat resonated through her body.  
  
"Well, Dr. Corday....I wasn't aware the hospital needed an Ass Chief," he paused, letting the tip of his tongue play at the corner of his mouth. "But if we must have one, I'm certainly glad it's you."  
  
"Bloody Hell!!" She yanked the door open and stalked to her desk, snatching the phone from its cradle and assaulting the keypad. "Stupid, bumbling, ignorant, incompetent fools!"  
  
Robert followed her inside casually, observing bemusedly as she barked into the receiver. "This is Elizabeth Corday, I need to speak to someone..no, don't you DARE put me on hold...damn!" She twisted the cord impatiently between her fingers. Romano picked up the work order that lay on the corner of her desk, glancing over it. Her note was stapled to the top left corner, and his grin widened in immeasurable delight. He opened the barrel and took aim.  
  
"Well, Lizzie, I guess it's true what they say."  
  
He handed her the paper, tapping one spot in particular.  
  
"Bad things can happen if you skip a period."  
  
  
  
Yes, there were costs. And not all of them were funny.  
  
Mark.  
  
She wanted so desperately to make a go of things with him. She'd spent so much of her life with men who were brooding, flighty, impulsive. Men whom she could see herself in. Vain ego trip - and it never worked. She ended up alone, sad, hurt, abandoned, and feeling used.  
  
She knew it was time to grow up. She needed someone stable. Someone safe. Fireworks were not important. Spice and variety were not important. Friendship, warmth, affection, protection.  
  
Mark.  
  
She'd never told him about her dreams, her visions. She'd never uttered one word. And she didn't mean to spend all their time together defending her decision to take the position, nor defending Romano himself. But usually, that's exactly what ended up happening.  
  
He would take her to dinner. They would discuss the events of the day. She would turn the conversation to movies, to music, to art, to politics.  
  
He would gripe about Romano.  
  
She would try to ignore it. Ask about Rachel. About David. About Michael Jordan.  
  
He would ask how she could stand him, breathing down her neck. She would have to fight back images of that metaphor come to life. And he always seemed to take her hesitation so personally.  
  
Well, it isn't my fault! He's the one who brings it up, always bringing it up. Chiding, criticizing, admonishing. The little jokes and sarcasms. Tired, trite, droll. At least Romano is witty. Charming. Engaging.  
  
Comparing the boss to the boyfriend. Thin ice, Lizzie. Tread very carefully. 


	7. Sticks and Stones

DISCLAIMER: Jack and John put thinking caps on and created a man we call Rocket..Introduced him to Lizzie and made him quite dizzy, then tucked all their plots in their pocket. Then I came along and I said, "This is wrong! Lizzie should beg, 'Rocket, woo me.'" So I started to type, but no matter the hype, I won't make a cent....so don't sue me!  
  
Yes, lovelies, sweet Erin has released her death-grip on Lizzie and sent her racing after Rocket in my mind. Care to observe the chase?  
  
Oh, don't know who Erin is? Get thee to my other fic...please?  
  
Alternate Universe, right? FICTION, right? So you won't be thrown if I alter a bit what we've seen on the show....right?  
  
  
  
She had no idea when leaving home that morning that this was where she'd end up. Sitting in a chair in a darkened surgical recovery room, pretending to review post-op notes on a desk in front of her, really watching the patient in bed three with acute interest.  
  
There were a dozen other places she could be.  
  
The drink with Mother hadn't gone that badly. Civil, if nothing else. She'd agreed to be a guest in her home, anyway, and that was something. Years passed without a word, a transatlantic journey with no notice, and now Mummy Dearest would be sleeping in the room next to hers. She could have gone home and asked Isabelle to join her in a cup of tea. Could have gone home and taken a bath. Could have gone home and gone to bed.  
  
But she hadn't.  
  
She could have sought out Mark. Wouldn't have been difficult. And she wouldn't have been denied. The tension was growing between them as his gestures of sincere affection began to evolve into advances of real physical conquest. It should have been exciting. Stimulating. She should feel anticipation. She should feel delighted. She should feel desired. She just felt exhausted. It was all so tedious.  
  
Tedious. The story of her life lately.  
  
She was too easily distracted, too easily annoyed...  
  
In desperate need of a good shagging?  
  
Perhaps. Should have gone after Mark after all. Then again, who says that he could provide..  
  
Stop it, Elizabeth!  
  
She flipped the folder in front of her closed and grabbed a new one. Rollins, Dean. She felt a shudder pass through her body. Thank God we're putting a close on this one. Rapist, murderer, evil son of a bitch. What that man had put her through swept her stomach with nausea. She'd made herself his accessory after the fact, and he'd ridden that horse until it dropped from fatigue. He'd made her examine the basest corners of her soul, rediscover calculating hatred, and clinical arrogance. Normally driven to save life, she'd faced her eyes in the mirror knowing how close she'd come to letting his just drift away. Drift? Hell, she very nearly shoved him through that transcendental door with both palms flat against his back.  
  
And he made her face her weakness with regards to him.  
  
She was so ashamed, yet so brazenly proud. "You never fail to impress me...I didn't think you had it in you to cross that line." His voice caressing her cheek in a purr of ?contempt? ?disappointment?  
  
Awe?  
  
She would have walked away. Scrubbed her hands, so to speak. Left him to another doctor to patch up or put down or anything else in between. And she didn't stay the course out of a desire to help him face the chair. Or to help the victim's families. Or even to prove to herself that she could.  
  
She did it because he asked.  
  
Walking her down the hall. Touching her without touching her. Blackmailing her with the most considerate of gestures, the silkiest of voices "You and I both know I'm capable of the low blow. However, I rarely use it to such purity of purpose."  
  
Twisted every way, what answer could she give?  
  
Waxing Andrew Lloyd Webber. Dear God.  
  
She would never forget Rollins' face as he tormented Lindsey Cordova. His grin of triumph as she folded the trembling young woman in her arms and rushed her from the room.  
  
Nor would she forget her encounter with Romano in the surgeon's lounge an hour later.  
  
She had gone to be in the dim quiet. To take some ibuprofen and clear her head. To try and figure out where to go from there. The door swung open, his presence electric in the muted room. The door swinging shut. Him leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, blue scrub coat pulled taut over his shoulders. "Shirley said I might find you here."  
  
"Go away, Robert. I'm in no mood." Voice dripping with venom, rage taking focus on the only live target in the vicinity.  
  
"I take it things with Rollins....did not go well."  
  
She snapped her head around to face him despite the grinding knife in her brain, hair bouncing from one shoulder to the opposite. "No, Robert!" She spat vehemently. "Things most certainly did not go well. And please, let me take this opportunity to thank you. Thank you for making me party to one of the most despicable acts of human depravity I could ever have witnessed!"  
  
He held firm against her sudden lashing, the only indicator that he'd even heard her the rapid blinking of his eyes. She fixed him with the iciest of stares and was preparing to tell him that, if he wanted any more information from the cold-blooded bastard in recovery on the jail ward, he could go climb into bed with him himself. And then it happened.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
For a moment she thought the words were a whisper of her imagination. She never saw his lips move, never saw his chest shift to push the sound free from his throat. Yet, his expression confirmed that he had, in fact, offered out the one thing she thought him incapable of giving.  
  
A hundred scenarios raced though her mind as they regarded each other from across the room. She could see her rage boiling over, pushing her to cross the distance and slap his face to drive home her point. She could hear her voice ravaging him with angry words. She could see her body ignited by the charge they passed back and forth between them. And unfortunately, that was the vision her fevered brain seized upon. She had no idea how her face appeared to him as she imagined moving across the floor, into his arms. Pulling his mouth down to hers, sliding hands under rough scrubs to find smooth skin, pulling him down, begging him to chase away the horrid visions she'd been unable to avoid since that monster had come into her life.  
  
Begging him to remind her of what making love was supposed to be. Two equals, two partners, two halves of a whole, giving, taking, sharing, touching, tasting....  
  
His pager exploded noise into the palpable silence. She jumped.  
  
He still held her in quiet regard. What had he seen in her face? What did he suspect in his mind?  
  
She would never know. He reached behind him. Pulled open the door without breaking their gaze, slipped through it, and was gone.  
  
She slammed the folder shut, earning her a scowl from the duty nurse. Patients shifted in their beds, but no one awoke. Pity, really. Some conversation might have been nice. Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples. Why am I still here?  
  
Bed three.  
  
Of course, no one knew that was why. The nursing staff thought she was playing cover her ass. After all, diagnosing an eroded aortic graft as stomach flu doesn't go over well with risk management. She had checked on Mr. Barnes, of course. But it wasn't he who held her interest.  
  
If she hadn't thought Benton was in charge of the repair, she never would have gone into the OR.  
  
She was finishing a consult in the ER when Malucci came striding from the trauma room, uttering his usual mundane enthusiasms for gory procedure. "Hey, Dr. Corday, though you'd wanna know." Stunned and chagrined that Peter would have to deal with a case she'd so unceremoniously dumped, she'd finished her business as quickly as possible and hurried to offer her apologies.  
  
But Romano was running the surgery when she arrived, keeping Peter at arm's length in some such ridiculous punishment. Apparently, Benton had tried to fall on his sword for her. Setting the record straight, she'd accepted Robert's wrath, even while noticing it seemed a bit off. Still, it came as a surprise when he crumpled to the floor, doubled over and writhing in pain.  
  
Oh, God, Robert...  
  
She couldn't get to his side quick enough, even while the others were stepping over him like so much surgical roadkill*. She could feel the heat of his fever before she even touched him. She called for a gurney, alarmed and ?enticed? by the small grunts and groans escaping his throat...  
  
...dreams are going to be noisier than ever now....  
  
She smoothed the scrub cap off his forehead, soothing the skin of his brow, fighting the urge to press her lips to the center. "Robert? Robert, can you hear me?"  
  
"Unh..Lizzie.."  
  
"Shhh, it's all right."  
  
Somehow they got him on a gurney, whisked him from the room. They diagnosed the kidney stone rather easily, and set him up in recovery. When his fever broke and the pain meds were in, he lay sulking in the bed, squirming as the offensive mass worked its way through his system. For once, he'd had no idea how to address her, save for some lame barb about her staying away from the goods.  
  
Robert Romano embarrassed was quite a sight to behold.  
  
She'd dealt with him as she would any other patient, leaving him when Peter arrived to report Mr. Barnes status. She'd showered, changed, and quested out to find her mother. Shared a few drinks, glossed over her relationship with Mark, but at the end of the evening, found herself pulled back to that magnetic point of origin. She'd used Mr. Barnes as an excuse to her mother as well, and hurried back to the hospital. Parked the car, taken the stairs two at a time.....  
  
He was asleep.  
  
A blessing probably.  
  
After all, what would she have said? 


	8. Contributing Factors

DISCLAIMER: There is another dimension beyond those that are known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between sweetness and snark, between reality and imagination and it lies between the creations of NBC/ WB execs and the exploitations of such by yours truly. You're traveling through that dimension, a dimension of sight and sound, but mostly of mind. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Cordano Zone!  
  
Damn. Rod Serling kicked ass.  
  
Still hanging on in hope of some heat? Here, have an appetizer..  
  
  
  
Ravaged. Exhausted. Disheartened.  
  
She leaned against the corner of the elevator, a single tear sliding down her cheek. She had been so young, so full of potential and promise. And Elizabeth had believed, almost to the very last moment that she would pull through. The paddles would charge, she would make contact, and that heart would leap back into action.  
  
It had to.  
  
She and Romano could move heaven and earth in the OR for strangers; certainly they could patch together this young girl that they had both worked with, trained, even grown fond of. But the battered tissue simply couldn't take it. He'd held up his bloody hands, an unfamiliar gesture of surrender. She could feel black rage coming from him in waves, yet his voice was surprisingly gentle as he told her to call it.  
  
Another tear, a shuddering sigh.  
  
I want to go home.  
  
The doors slid open, and she stepped into the ER. Police milling about, flashbulbs popping, and a strange calm pallor in air usually charged with electricity. She wanted to find Mark.  
  
She needed to find Mark.  
  
His face would light up. He may stumble a bit. His eagerness would probably make his speech a little jumbled. And that would be all right with her. She needed something to work out exactly as she expected it to. Something dark, something close, something sweet. Something denied for too long. To escape to some warm, inviting spot, to beat back the hand of death by indulging so selfishly in the one thing that was meant to create life.  
  
She made her way to the admit desk. He was wiping the board, and she moved behind him, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her cheek to the hollow between his shoulder blades. "Hey," he spoke wearily, rubbing her arms gently.  
  
"Please tell me we can get out of her and bring this horrible day to an end," she sighed. He turned in her embrace, and she saw it in his expression before he could utter a word.  
  
"You're not going home, are you?"  
  
"It's a zoo down here, Elizabeth. There are cops and questions, and there's bound to be reporters sooner or later. Add that to the insanity we usually have to brave." Mark removed his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I can't go."  
  
Even though she understood, she felt a flash of irrational anger. Making a mighty effort, she spared him a verbal lashing, instead kissing him softly. "I guess I'll take the El." They embraced gently, and then Kerry Weaver was crutching her way around the corner, calling his name. She released him, watching dejectedly as he walked away. Realizing she'd left her purse upstairs, she dragged herself back to the elevator. In the solitude of the car, she muttered a curse. She didn't want to be alone.  
  
Well, there's always Mother, waiting at home.for once.  
  
The thought made her queasy. Sighing heavily, she began searching for other options.  
  
She couldn't offer to stay on and work - she was knackered. Probably couldn't cut a straight line with a gun to her head.  
  
There was the on-call room, but she was sure she wouldn't be able to sleep.  
  
She could cross the street to Doc's. She had heard that some of the staff had assembled there, absorbing the shock with each other's support. "Well, it's better than nothing," she said aloud, exiting the elevator. She focused her eyes straight ahead, moving down the hall. She slipped into the locker room, retrieved her bag, and exited quickly. She passed the lounge and saw Donald Anspaugh inside, speaking with a man she didn't recognize. Probably a detective. She shuddered, kept moving, one foot in front of the other. Don't look to the side, just walk straight ahead, to the elevator, and out.  
  
She stopped short, her breath caught in her throat. The door to the Chief of Staff's office was ajar, and she saw a shadow of movement inside. An explosion of vibrant and colorful thought exploded through her brain, making her sway on her knees and utter an audible gasp. Before she knew it, her fingers were closed around the edge of the door, pushing it open.  
  
"Robert?"  
  
  
  
  
  
He turned in his chair, looking pale and spent. "Lizzie," he intoned weakly. "Thought you'd be out of here by now."  
  
"As did I," she sighed. He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk and she sat gratefully. "Why are you still here?"  
  
"Emergency meeting with insurance and legal. What a pain in the ass." He grumbled  
  
She nodded.  
  
"What about you? Shouldn't you be off somewhere bonding with Mommy Dearest or canoodling with Greene?" His words were biting, but his tone was one of utter defeat "Those have to be at least slightly more appealing ideas than sitting here watching the minutes tick off."  
  
She decided to let his verbal barb slide. "The very idea of sharing with Mother like we're best of friends, after all this time." She grimaced a bit. "I just can't stomach it."  
  
"And Mark?" Romano goaded gently.  
  
Elizabeth was surprised to find that the walls she usually raised with him were decidedly absent. "Mark's doing his job." She replied simply. He nodded almost imperceptibly, his dark eyes burning into hers. A charged silence hung between them for a moment, and then Elizabeth spoke again. "Some of the ER staff is over at Doc Magoo's.I was considering joining them." She tried to keep her voice light. "Will you come?"  
  
He smirked gently. "No thanks, Lizzie. That place has bad karma for me, if you'll recall."  
  
She blushed a bit. "So what will you do? Sit vigil with our insulinoma patient all night long?"  
  
He snorted brief laughter. "Something like that."  
  
"Well, if you're sure." she rose slowly from her chair, and he followed suit. He walked her to the door, his hand gently brushing her back. Her mind raced suddenly, recalling all the times he had found some small reason or excuse to touch her. Ushering her through a door, drawing her into a room, a procedure, a conversation. His hands brushing her earlier in their urgency to define Lucy's best course of treatment - her arm, her hip.  
  
"Elizabeth?" His voice jerked her from her reverie.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I asked if you're going to be all right, but I think you just answered me. You should go home and sleep."  
  
His face was mere inches from hers, her shoulder nearly brushing his chest.  
  
Don't do it.  
  
His eyes, so deep brown with emotion they were nearly black. The angle of cheek more defined as the pains of the day drew his skin gaunt over bone. The lips pursed tight as his tongue played in the corner of his jaw. His jaw, which lead down to a well-defined throat, clavicle. Her vision screwed in for microscopic detail...the wonderfully masculine skin, the first dusting of fine hair that surely spread down below what was visible through the v-neck of navy blus scrubs..  
  
Elizabeth...  
  
How many times had she traced those lines behind the lids of her closed eyes? Tasted the chemistry of his skin beneath her tongue? Drawn strong arms around her waist, caressed broad shoulders with curious palms? Shared her breath, her heartbeat...her body?  
  
Go home. Now.  
  
Was that her mind? Or his voice?  
  
His face open, focused on hers, brows raised expectantly. Waiting for whatever question, whatever statement may have caused her to linger in his presence.  
  
Her hand covered his, pushing the door closed. His jaw went slack in surprise. Her voice drifted on the air, though she did not recall speaking. "Robert?" His eyes began to burn, seemingly against his will.  
  
"I don't want to be alone tonight." 


	9. A Healing Touch

DISCLAIMER: To type, or not to type? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous NBC execs, ER writers, and WB henchmen. Or to take up a pen against the sea of bad and abandoned plot lines, and by opposing, create new ones. Aye, there's the rub.  
  
Okay, so I kinda crapped out on that one. Blame NBC, and gimme a break - I'm saving my creativity for down the page.  
  
This installment is dedicated, heart and soul, to Rocket Launcher, who helped me remember why I started in the first place when I briefly lost my way.  
  
"R" - Does she mean ready and rarin' to go? Heh!  
  
  
  
  
  
There was a palpable tremble in the air.  
  
His eyes, so dark, so guarded. His tongue, once at play so visibly beneath the skin of his cheek, had retreated into the depths of his mouth. His pulse, throbbing through one well-defined vein beneath her palm as they both pressed against the panel of the door.  
  
"Elizabeth," his voice husky, gravelly.  
  
"Robert?" God, was that her? A tone so breathy, so feminine?  
  
"It's been a real bitch of a day."  
  
She slipped her fingers in between his, sliding her fingertips down between wood and flesh. "That it has."  
  
He was staring at her hand, burning a hole through to his own, and deeper.  
  
"This is not exactly the best time for -" He faltered a bit as the soft pads covering delicate bone pressed against his palm.  
  
"For what?" Elizabeth prompted gently.  
  
His eyes dragged their way to hers, and she silently lifted his hand from the door. She guided it to her face, felt it heat the air next to her cheek...  
  
Until he jerked away from her as if she were trying to guide him into an open flame. "I don't have time for games such as these, Lizzie." He disentangled his fingers from hers and took a defensive step backwards. He was unguarded, uncomfortable, and raging at his own demeanor for betraying him as such. "Do us both a favor, Dr. Corday. Get the hell out of my office."  
  
He gave her his back, slowly, deliberately before crossing the room to the window on the opposite side of his desk. Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, a dozen scenarios rising in her brain.  
  
She could slip out the door. He'd let her go, and they would never speak of it again.  
  
She could turn on him hotly, demand an explanation. Back him into a corner, and watch him pounce his way out. The verbal fencing promised to be brilliant.  
  
She could goad him, laugh at him. Attack while his fortress was laid open wide. And it would all end there. His crush, his infatuation, his desire would evaporate under heated fury and humiliation. She would earn his hatred, his contempt. Then maybe she could sleep at night and not awaken with that moist, nagging ache her visions of him always left her with. Maybe that would be best. End it all here in one fell swoop.  
  
Before she could open her mouth, her legs were carrying her across the room. She moved up behind him...  
  
....and time seemed to freeze in one clear, crystalline stretch where she saw his muscles tighten as he sensed her proximity, saw the fine hair at the base of his skull stand on end in anticipation, heard the click of his jaw as he clamped teeth together, and she could hear him railing at her in his mind - "go away, go away, GO AWAY"....  
  
She touched his shoulder, and he jerked like a live wire. "Elizabeth." Voice full of warning, taut, strained, like a sheet spread over too much mattress.  
  
Lovely analogy.  
  
She spread her fingers, scrubs under palm, flesh beneath fingertips. She flicked her nails lightly against the rise of his neck. He whirled, grabbing her wrist in a painful vise and wrenching it away. Their faces were inches apart, his breath was snorting from flared nostrils, and his fingers were burning a brand into her skin. He was furious - more so then she had ever seen. Amazingly, Elizabeth found herself smiling. He flinched away, eyeing her suspiciously. "What in the hell has gotten into you?"  
  
Oh, my dear Rocket, not nearly enough....  
  
The fingers of her free hand found his locked elbow, slid up over the tensed muscle of his forearm, and gently grasped the wrist holding hers prisoner. Her voice, a soft, seductive purr. "Robert? You're hurting me." Triumph and regret met in the battlefield of his eyes, but Elizabeth chose not to wait to see who would be the victor. Instead, she moved his hand, guiding hers closer. She stretched her fingers, reaching, then released her grip on him as he completed the journey, bringing her palm to his face. He covered the back of her hand with his and leaned into her touch, his lips grazing the tender flesh inside her wrist. Yet even as his body began to respond, his mouth still battled. Yes, that mouth....  
  
"You cannot possibly want this," he murmured hoarsely. "You're out of your mind."  
  
She lifted her other hand to his opposite cheek.  
  
"No, Robert. For the first time, in a very long time, I'm thinking quite clearly."  
  
He uttered a barking sob as she covered his lips with hers.  
  
  
  
The sensation was exquisite. Soft and strong, rigid yet flexible, salty and sweet, and at long last, yielding. She caught his earlobes between index and middle fingers, ran thumbs along his jaw. Exhaling warm breath across his skin, she parted her lips slightly to mesh them better with his. She realized she had lowered her lashes, and she lifted them slowly, needing to see his reaction.  
  
It seemed he had never closed his eyes, for the instant her lids parted their gazes locked with a nearly audible click. The swirling brown was full of question, of reservation, of suspicion. Holding his stare, she moved her lips tenderly against his, and saw the first edgings of a new emotion rise.  
  
Hope.  
  
It flooded her heart with longing, with desire. Still holding his face in her hands, she deliberately closed her eyes once more, tilted her head slightly, and parted his lips with her tongue. An electric thrill ran through her body as she absorbed his flavor. Musky, sweet, with a hint of bitterness that may have come from their earlier defeat in the OR, or from the cup of stale coffee that sat on his desk blotter. She could feel desire and restraint still at war within him, and she slid her hands down rigid arms, guiding them around her waist. It was like moving a marionette; there was no give whatsoever. She pulled her mouth away from his and lay her head on his shoulder, knowing the curls captured on top of her head would caress his cheek. "Robert," she murmured softly. "Hold me."  
  
Stubble grazing her jaw, angular nose brushing her neck, and his face was pressed against her, and his arms were tightening around her, molding to her body, one hand flattened and pressed between her shoulder blades, the other clutching her sweater at the small of her back. She moved her own arms around broad shoulders now trembling ever so slightly and pulled him against her, feeling the racing of his heart pound against her own chest. "Elizabeth?" His voice, sleepy, meek, mild. She didn't like it. She shushed him, to no avail. "Elizabeth." Well, stronger this time. More Romano.  
  
"Yes, Robert?" She didn't lift her head.  
  
"What -" he cleared his throat. "What exactly are we doing here?"  
  
Elizabeth lifted her head to face him, searching for the most appropriate response. Everything that leapt to mind was just wrong somehow - too sleazy, too coy, too patronizing, too timid. Then, finally....  
  
"Don't you know?"  
  
Time suspended once more, and Elizabeth saw him the way, she now realized, she'd always wanted to. Not as the bombastic surgeon who sniped his superiority to all who crossed his path. Not as the ruthless administrator who had raised the sadistic torture of his subordinates to the level of art. Not as the ruthless predator who would stop at nothing to have her attention. The Robert Romano who stood loosely held in her arms was merely a man, perfect and flawed, confident and scared, needing and aloof, certain and unsure, and more vulnerable than any human being would ever dare to be.  
  
He'd been her teacher, imparting surgical wisdom that no one else ever could. Teaching skills never mastered by other hands.  
  
He'd been her antagonist, doling out obstacles, making her jump, watching her climb. Willing her forward, making her ten times the doctor she would have been had they not crossed paths  
  
He'd been her partner, diving with her into the recesses of the human body, seeking injury to heal, damage to repair, disease to eradicate. Standing by her side when she beat death, and when it defeated her.  
  
He'd been her friend. A bizarre camaraderie, a mysterious, elusive amity, but one that pulled her all the same.  
  
And now, after all that had passed, she wanted him as her love.  
  
As realization crept over her, her face illuminated in a peaceful smile. Romano started a bit, and it occurred to Elizabeth how completely ill- equipped the man was to handle the gesture she was offering. "Robert? If you don't want this - if you're not ready...." Her words trailed off as her fingers played tenderly at the base of his neck. "It really isn't polite to leave a lady wondering."  
  
His face softened, eyes clouded. He began to shake his head from side to side, lowering his eyes, unable to meet her gaze. And now Elizabeth was embarrassed, even guilty, for disarming him so. "I - I can't.....Lizzie, I don't think - "  
  
She placed two fingers over his lips.  
  
"Good." She whispered softly. "Don't think." She brought her lips to his once more. For a brief moment they hovered, immobile.  
  
And then the dam within him broke. His arms tightened around her, hands sliding up her back and plunging into the depths of her hair, fingers working desperately to set it wild and free about her shoulders. His lips parted, his tongue danced against hers, and he drew breath from her lungs into his own. His body moved against hers, solid against soft, and she could just feel....  
  
He yanked her brutally away from him. They stood gasping for breath, regarding each other with molten surprise. His hands still in her hair, her arms clutching at his waist, bodies trembling with anticipation. His lips curled in a grin. "Hard or soft?"  
  
Well, he made quite a recovery. She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
He rolled his tongue over his lower teeth, making her weak in the knees. Well, weaker. "Desk or sofa, Dr. Corday. The choice should be yours; after all, it is your back."  
  
She blanched slightly, and he chuckled. Even here, even now, he was trying to keep her in her place. Well, that was her Robert. She ran her thumb over his lips, smiling as he nipped at it.  
  
"Who says you get to be on top?"  
  
A throaty growl, and she was pressed against him once more. And it was more than any dream, any vision, and fevered imagining locked inside her brain. It was real. He was real. Solid, warm, welcoming. His fingers moving in her hair, his lips pressed against her own, his arms, his chest, and lower, and suddenly her control was gone, and she was swept away on a wave of pure euphoria, and closing her eyes, she held on to him for dear life.  
  
He was moving her, moving against her. The world shifted, tilted, and something cool and smooth and inviting was embracing her from behind. His weight was on her and her leg slid up, her calf settling into the cradle of his knee. She clawed his scrub top up over his head, and was rewarded with muscular shoulders and mildly defined pectorals and delightfully masculine skin. He twitched as she flattened her palm over his heart and traced her thumb over flesh that rose to greet her touch. His mouth left hers and he gasped slightly for air, throwing his head back. She could not resist the temptation of his exposed throat, and she lifted her head to trace the shoreline of the hollow with the tip of her tongue. He grabbed the back of her head, to guide or to support, she was not sure which. She pressed her other hand against the other side of his chest, fingers tracing the line where pale skin became rosy. The arm caressing the small of her back moved around to her stomach, found the hem of her shirt, and tented fingers began to bare her skin. Elizabeth breathed in raggedly as the fabric briefly covered her face, then was gone. Lace and elastic followed behind, and his breath caught in a gasp. "Elizabeth..."  
  
Romano was frozen above her, and she watched as the gravity of the situation settled squarely on his shoulders. His hand hovered above her, warming sensitive skin, but not making contact. His face was a squall of emotion - desire, need, doubt, and fear twisting features she had memorized in spite of herself. She arched, moving herself into his touch. His eyes glazed a bit, his tongue darting out to wet parched lips. She marveled at the heat stoked within his palm, how it made her bare skin at its borders rise with a chill. He closed his eyes briefly, battling for control.  
  
Control, control, always the issue.  
  
She reached up, gently covered his hand with her own. Pressing him closer. Her other hand made its way to his neck in a gentle caress. Mild pressure, pulling him down, finding his lips with her own, kissing, tasting, breathing in his scent. Slender fingers stroked silky soft hair covering the well-defined base of his skull. Her mouth moved against his with renewed hunger. Restrained response, maddening. She hope her voice was encouraging as she spoke his name languidly, tasting the word as it rolled off her tongue. "Robert." The flavor suited her, so she sampled again. "Robert." She shifted beneath him, hips relaxing and turning, then nudging gently.  
  
"Robert, love..."  
  
A strangled moan ?his? ?hers?, and some unseen wave crashed over them both, pushing him to her. Slow and steady turned hasty and desperate, cotton and linen taking leave in whispers, mouths meeting, fingers tangling, bodies merging, and all that was left was the swirling rainbow of colors exploding behind her eyes and his voice in her ear. He led and she followed and she guided and he responded, give and take and need and want and touch and taste and higher and deeper and more and more. Together, culmination, unity, harmony, and she cried out his name, her tears wetting his cheeks as his mouth traced her jaw. He held her, he rocked her, he made her complete.  
  
And even when her nails raked blood from his back and her teeth closed harshly on his neck, he stayed. 


End file.
